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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075352">Tapestry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingbird/pseuds/Kingbird'>Kingbird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Threads of Fate [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 01:14:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,513</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingbird/pseuds/Kingbird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She sprang, finally, drawing curved blades- and Invincible rose up above her, blue light flooding the golden field as Frostmourne flared to life. A moment of terror, of weakness- of defiance. </i>
</p><p>It only takes a moment to unravel the threads of time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Threads of Fate [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was an intended one-shot to set up an AU for me and my RP partners. It's uh.... gotten away from me. A fix-it fic of sorts, though some things will remain the same. There will eventually be romance! There are occasionally OCs. </p><p>When Arthas attacks Quel'thalas, a mysterious force intervenes, sparing the High Elves from a fate more grisly than they know. In the aftermath, Azeroth still struggles against  the Burning Legion and the Frozen Throne. But maybe, this time, it will be <i>different</i>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the darkness of the night, a quel’dorei stirs fitfully, consumed by nightmares. </p><p>In another time, he sleeps through them and wakes only with a vague dread.</p><p>Here, he bolts upright, panting, sweating, waking the sunpriest beside him. </p><p>
 
</p><p>Golden petals drift, catching on soft summer breezes, ruffling the cloaks and hair of the fair company which stands amidst the field. In contrast to the pleasant day, there are people running in blind terror between them, like rivulets amongst river-stones. The Farstriders of Quel’thalas are unmoving, grim and determined in the face of the sunlight and the people they stand to save. </p><p>The shadow that creeps on the horizon does not change this. To the human eye, they are blots of darkness against the cerulean of the sky, but to the sharp eyes of Ranger-General Sylvanas, the gruesome details are stark. She grits her teeth, brushing her verdant hood back, and the rangers behind her shift as well, stringing bows and nocking arrows. For almost within the same space that an elf can see their foe, they come in range. A few yards, or a few hundred yards. It matters not to a Farstrider. </p><p>The ghouls shamble over the roll of the hill, and the company of rangers loose their deadly hail of arrows. They strike true, even if the creatures do not always lie still. Some pull themselves off the shaft, or crawl along on the ground, ripping their own bodies apart to advance on the quel’dorei between them and their master’s goals. Still, the rangers stand firm. This resilience is of no surprise to them. They have spent the last many days cutting through the ranks of these Scourge, and now they know their tricks. The horror fades, and the anger grows.</p><p>But still, Sylvanas Windrunner had known and conveyed the hard truth of their position; the undead overwhelmed their towns and outposts, and with each that they conquered added to their number, for the dead did not stay this way. So it was that in order to save the civilians they must fall back to the power that was Silvermoon. And to buy them time… </p><p>Another salvo strikes the approaching line, and now amidst the wave, the Rangers catch sight of the towering figure amongst them, moving at an easy pace astride his necromantic steed. Sylvanas raises her chin, something fierce and satisfied passing over her face. This thing was their leader, once a human prince. He would pay for the lives he had desecrated these days in more than just his undead slaves. </p><p>And with one last deadly hail from the elves, now the undead forces come within their own range. Their weapons are rarely of great make; often damaged or of human make, but any arrow will hurt, and already the elves knew well that any injury could become the kiss of death with this foe. Fell poisons and toxins coated the unclean arrows and blades of their enemies and infection was swift to set in. Still, they could not fall back or waver when it was only civilians at their back. </p><p>The line of melee fighters- ghouls, ghosts, gheists, and abominations too terrible to possess names descend upon the rangers in a swarm. Arrows fly, blades sing. And yet as Sylvanas slays monstrosity after monstrosity she can hear and see her rangers suffering and dying at a rate that is far too fast. All the while, the feeling of dread becomes oppressive, raising the hair on the back of her neck, sending all of the rangers into a state of fear as they fight. She must move now, or they will crumble beneath the onslaught and lose everything they fight for. </p><p>She launches into a flurry of attacks, loosing arrows into every undead that comes into her path, cutting a swathe of destruction, aiming herself into the heart of the swarm with precision. Nothing stands between her, and her quarry. She springs, finally, drawing curved blades- and Invincible rises up above her, blue light flooding the golden field as Frostmourne flared to life. A moment of terror, of weakness- of defiance.</p><p>
 
</p><p>“Shindu fallah na!” A black Hawkstrider hurdles through the streets. He leaves blood and gore in his wake. One splendid wing hangs at his side, scuffing the ground with every gather of his trembling legs, “Shindu fallah na! The Ranger-general has fallen! The runestone has failed! Shindu fallah na!” </p><p>At last the poor beast and its rider skid to a halt in the square. It stumbles and slides, sending its rider to the ground some feet away as well, and for a heartwrenching moment, neither rise from where they fell. </p><p>“Farstrider!” A commanding voice calls. Several elves rush from their meeting in the inn, not the least of which was a powerful looking blonde man, his face swathed in bandages. </p><p>At the call and the sounds of footsteps, at last the ranger staggers to her feet. Her eyes go to the Hawkstrider, which remains still, and grief passes over her features. She’d run the wounded animal to death; but it was only one more injury to the others. “Ranger-lord!” She returns, staggering forwards a step. Two of the other rangers catch her elbows, their faces drawn and pale. </p><p>“Forgive me; when I saw what happened I broke rank. But please, you must listen!” She begs, “Sylvanas met their commander on the field, by the Light I have never seen-” Her voice falters and breaks, “She managed to injure him, with her last arrow. Right in the eye,” Her voice is ragged but viciously glad, her lips drawing back into a feral snarl of a grin, wild with rage and grief. “And then he raised her Lor’themar! His sword- a runeblade of sorts I have never seen before.” Lor’themar’s grip on the farstrider’s shoulder is like iron now, as much to steady himself as the woman who weaves on her feet, her knees threatening to buckle.</p><p>“He has been raising our dead as ghouls,” He says evenly, quietly.</p><p>“No,” She hisses, and then he realizes the wildness for what it is: terror, shock, fear. “No- he raised her, and my sisters and when she screamed I- I- She killed them with it, and I could feel-” Her voice fails, choking, rasping as she trembles and sees and hears what they do not. Now he spots the blood around her ears, the dark blotch behind the dimming glow of her eyes, where vessels have burst and bruised. </p><p>“I passed the runestones with monsters behind me and the runestone did nothing,” She whispers. The chill he felt gripping her shoulder has spread to his chest, paralyzing. He breathes in, deeply and out, schooling his mind. He realizes his hand is bruising and no longer comforting and swiftly drops it, though the poor woman makes no complaint. </p><p>“Then…” He begins, “Then we must do everything we can to evacuate the city now- with the rate he was moving earlier though-” A wave of panic threatens to swell again. </p><p>The farstrider lets out a raspy laugh, raising her eyes to meet his again, “He retreated. With the arrow in his eye, I saw- she hurt him- <i>he retreated</i>.”</p><p>
 
</p><p>Dark and gleeful, one lean magistrate looks over the artwork of his task, and grins. His eyes burn with ambition and joy. With this task at last, the stage is set for his master’s return and then-! </p><p>Dar’khan Drathir steps over the frail body of the ancient magister he has slain, towards the bright pool of the Sunwell. They had come here, like moths to a flame, to understand why their Runestones failed. He heard that his master had been delayed by that obnoxious Ranger-General, but it didn’t really matter. Here, at the heart of the Quel’dorei’s power, he could hold this seat for years. He had learned its secrets, he had mastered it. </p><p>And while he waited… He was due a reward for his hard work, wasn’t he?</p><p>Dar’khan took another step towards the Sunwell. In the blinding light, he failed to see the shadow which suddenly sprang at him from the side.</p><p>
 
</p><p>The single light of the Death Knight’s eye glares balefully over the choppy waves which separate him and the utopic island afar. Sylvanas is for the moment silent at his side, but he feels her mind strain against his with each moment she continues to be tethered here. She was not worth the price he paid- when he at last came to Silvermoon, he arrived to the gates thrown open and only a skeleton-crew militia there, who collapsed buildings on his ghouls and by no means made up for the losses he had taken fighting them or the Farstriders. He wants to vindictively lash out at the Banshee, but bides his time. He’s already sent out gargoyles to deal with the ships he saw departing from the harbor square earlier. They’ll pay dearly for what they cost him. </p><p>He can see the lanternlight on the distant shore that tells him there are elven archers and troops there too. But he can tell by the Banshee’s almost smug thoughts that they think this ocean means anything to him. These elves have wasted enough of his time. He urges Invincible forwards, onto the water, and the bridge of ice spans out before them, crashing into the forward shore. He notes with pleasure the way lights flare up along the beach, the alarm spreading. It matters not. Invincible surges forwards, and the army follows. </p><p>What meets him at the beach is a paltry force beside his own. He knows how to crush them best. He goads Sylvanas into them, and her Banshees with them, and hears the terror and pain from both sides. And then he sees the sole figure cutting his way forwards- their leader. Their king. Like the Farstriders before, he knows once he kills the leader the elves’ resolve will crumble. </p><p>Anastaerian Sunstrider is not a young elf, his years extended by the might of the Sunwell and times of peace, so he knows in his way that this war will be his last. And still, he sees the unnatural blue of the Runeblade wielded by the prince, and hears the devastating sorrow in the wail of the banshees turned upon the people they swore to protect, and anger gives him the power to fight again this last time. </p><p>He does not hesitate, and springs upon the Prince, drawing Felo’melorn’s sacred steel against the evil before them. The runeblades clash again and again, drawing spark and frost and steam, hissing and screaming as they meet, and Anastaerian can feel both sides beginning to slow as the fateful fight begins. He must not only dodge the cursed blade but also the hard hooves and the sharp fangs of the armored horse, and while he knows the beast is powerless to disobey- Anastaerian whirls once as the animal rises over him. There is a sickening sound of hot metal striking through limbs, and the foul beast crashes down with a scream that sounds too much like pain. </p><p>The Elven King purses his lips and backs up, using the moment to regain his breath. The wild look in his opponents remaining eye says it all for Arthas. “You will regret that!” With these words, the fallen prince lunges, nearly faster than the eye can see. Frostmourne whistles by again and again, and Anastaerian at last begins to tire, his years catching up to the distance fury and desperation had gained him. </p><p>He would slay this menace forever; but he would still be honored for his legacy to say he bought them enough time. He gathers his magic for a final display of prowess. And as he powers the spells, suddenly it is not Anastaerian struggling to keep up,  but Arthas. The cunning old elf teleported around the prince, letting his magic make up for the deficit of his aging body. </p><p>At last the king closed in, appearing behind Arthas’s exposed back. The Death Knight turned as well though, anticipating the attack. Frostmourne caught Felo’melorn along the edge, the runeblade splintering, fragmenting, crumbling before the might of the cursed weapon. Frostmourne sank deep into Anastaerian’s chest, but as the last king of Quel’thalas fell, he brought the broken blade into Arthas’s stomach, burning past armor into flesh and organs beneath. </p><p>Behind him, the monolithic Runestone at last flickered and sprang to life.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lor'themar reflects on the aftermath of the battle.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lor’themar stands on the beach, mulling over how the air still feels unseasonably cold. He sweeps his eye over the remnants of the battlefield and knows this could have been much… much worse. Still, there is a sense of hollowness, a sense of something only half-finished, and the quel’dorei looks over the deceptively calm ocean. </p><p>There is a potential to be swamped by despair.<br/>
Out there still are the ships of children.<br/>
And out there still is the monster of a Prince who slew his King.</p><p>The Sunwell falters.<br/>
Their Runestones fail.</p><p>He knows that Arthas cut a vindictive swathe of death through Quel’thelas on his way out too. Many Farstriders ignored all calls to return and instead hunted the Scourge past the mountains and into the corrupted eaves of Silverpine. They would probably follow him all the way back to Lordaeron.</p><p>The man breathed out a sigh and looked up at the comfortingly humming runestone behind him. They had made terrible sacrifices, to be sure. </p><p>And yet for their losses, behind him, he hears the calls of his rangers and militia, who comb the beach for the shards of Felo’melorn and gather the former undead into a pyre where they will not taint the ocean too. </p><p>Tomorrow morning their Prince would return with mages. </p><p>And while their absence was painful, Quel'thalas's impending destruction was held in check by the wrath of the Farstriders.  Arthas could not double back to attack again when he was so viciously pursued.  The human had released many of his ghouls in his retreat back over the ocean. Some had simply stopped moving, others falling apart instantly. Some even had begun to speak, to weep. But he had taken many of them with him... including Sylvanas. To steal her again, to snatch this victory from the hands of the Farstriders... it had incited only rage within those Rangers, not despair.</p><p>And yes, the Sunwell faltered sometimes but had been saved from whatever vile plans the Lich King and Dar'khan had in store for it, all treachery righted with a bloody blade.</p><p>When Lor'themar took into account how badly things could have gone, the rest seems so much more fixable. After all, the heart of Quel'thalas is not really its bright city, nor its fountain of power. No, Quel'thalas is made great by its people... and they are still <i>here</i>.  He turns to really look over them, this band of weary survivors, and all they symbolize, and his heart lifts just a little.</p><p>“Mages!” He calls across the beach, and smiles when they look at him, hopeful and attentive and <i>alive</i>, “ Raise the bridge. Let us go home.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200729">Unctuous Draught</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofSpiders/pseuds/LadyofSpiders">LadyofSpiders</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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